A Thousand Years
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Second in the Lovestrong series. It's strange, seeing Sherlock standing in his flat where Mary used to be.
1. Beauty in All She Is

Sherlock came back every day that week. He'd be there when John got off work and John would very calmly hold the door open for him. Sherlock would obligingly step outside, and always say the same thing before John closed the door in his face.  
"I love you," and then the door would close, with the doctor on one side and the detective on the other.

On the seventh day of this treatment, John sighed as he opened the door. Sherlock was there again; it was habit now to see his once-dead friend there, standing where his now-dead wife once stood. Sherlock heard the sigh, and everything behind it. "I'm not giving up so easily, John," he warned. John began closing the door. The "I love you," was faintly muffled by the door's wood but it was still easily discernable.

John strode across his living room to collapse on the sofa. If he really concentrated, he could still catch a whiff of Mary's scent about the flat, particularly in the living room where she'd spent the majority of her illness. She'd been the one to help John back to living after Sherlock jumped. At first she'd been just another patient in the hospital, a kind, gentle sort of woman with light blonde hair and blue eyes that danced even when he'd given her the sobering prognosis. Leukemia, so advanced it was unlikely chemotherapy would do much more than decrease the quality of the time she had left.

Something about her calm demeanor in the face of near certain death stuck with him, and he called her later that evening with some different treatment options. She'd turned them all down, saying she preferred to make the most of what time she had left to her, but offered to take him out to dinner for his kindness. John hadn't known how to react- he hadn't gone on anything resembling an actual date since before the Fall- but she laughed lightly and he'd agreed before he had time to panic.

Fast-forward three months and John was down on one knee, asking Mary to spend what time she had with him. She'd agreed and they were married within the week. Harry had thought it awfully quick, but she really had no space to talk considering her whirlwind courtship with her own wife.

He and Mary had lived happily in their new flat for nearly two months before her condition deteriorated. She'd managed to hang on though, for nearly four more months, holding tight to John's hand right up until he saw the light in her eyes go dim for the first time as her grip relaxed and she exhaled for the last time. It had been in the same room John now sat that she'd drawn that final breath, in the armchair opposite the fireplace where she'd often sit reading with her feet tucked cheerfully up under her.

Nine months she'd been gone, and John had healed well. He still missed her, wanted to see her, and tell her he loved her, but he had managed to move forward, accepting his lot in life as a widower and a doctor and nothing more. It was nothing like the devastation he'd felt when Sherlock had died, but there wasn't much point in feeling guilt over it, as it wasn't something he could change. He'd loved them both very much, but in very different ways. Mary had accepted that, and loved him anyway.

John had been okay, moving steadily towards contentment. Until Sherlock had reappeared and dicked everything up.


	2. Frozen

"But I don't understand why he won't let me explain," Sherlock complained, sounding a bit like a petulant child and not caring a bit.

Molly nodded sympathetically and hummed a bit before replying. "Well you hurt him quite a bit, Sherlock. He wasn't really the same after; he left us all and tried to forget everything that'd gone on at Baker Street. He did invite Greg and me to his wedding though. She was good for him, I think. Helped him quite a bit," she said, preparing another slide for Sherlock and sliding it over to him.

Happily she was over her infatuation with the detective, quite content with her new fiancée, even joyous when Sherlock had asked –only to be polite as John would have wanted him to- about their plans for the wedding.

Sherlock made a sound deep in his throat, something caught between jealousy and pain; jealousy, because someone else had been there to help John when he had not, and pain, because he had been the one to hurt John in the first place and now he was unable to fix it.

Molly only gave him a small smile, turning back to her own work while Sherlock tried to occupy himself. He'd never admit it, but he almost enjoyed talking to her like this, when he could just say things and she'd sympathetically tut a bit and even sometimes offer advice. He didn't understand how to behave in the face of emotional issues, and as John was at the heart of them, he could hardly expect the doctor to help as he once had.

A half hour passed in companionable silence before Sherlock got restless. He sprang up from his chair and glided towards the exit, tossing a half-hearted thank you over his shoulder as he went. When all these niceties had become part of his vocabulary he didn't know- well that was a lie. He_did_ know, he could pinpoint the moment exactly. When John had first mentioned that occasionally Sherlock should try to be kinder to the few friends he had, Sherlock had scoffed, but secretly taken it to heart and made an effort. Not to keep his friends, but to make John happy. Not that he'd ever openly admit _that_.

At first Sherlock was unsure where he wanted to go, but he finally settled on stopping in at the Yard. Since his name had been cleared, he'd begun taking cases again. Lestrade had been extremely apologetic from the moment Sherlock had reappeared, but Sherlock hadn't minded the D.I.'s doubt. Anyone would have been fooled by Moriarty's lies, Sherlock himself had even doubted the truth a few times. It was a constant surprise to him that John had remained loyal, hadn't demonized the detective in spite of the pain he'd clearly caused.

Prick of guilt at that thought. He'd hurt his John; hurt him as deeply as the detective knew how. It was only in defense of his life, but John didn't know that yet. Because he still wouldn't allow the detective more than three words. Naturally, they were the three that Sherlock had struggled with the entirety of his absence, but they didn't seem half as important if John didn't truly hear them. And he wasn't hearing them, he wasn't listening yet. Sherlock had to find a way to make him listen.

So he burst into Lestrade's office, his coat billowing out behind him before he sprawled into one of the chairs. The detective inspector hardly glanced up from his paperwork. "Nothing new, Sherlock, I already told you I'd call if something came up," Lestrade said, marking something on the papers in front of him before putting the pen down and looking Sherlock in the eye. "Then again, you don't look like you're here for a case."

The younger man sighed. He hadn't intended to say anything to Lestrade about his disastrous attempts to talk to John, but since he was already here and Lestrade certainly knew John better than Molly… "John won't speak to me," he finally revealed. Lestrade nodded a bit, leaning back in his chair.

"Doesn't like to talk to me either," he replied. Sherlock shook his head at that.

"No, he won't even allow me to explain my absence. I found his flat, and I went to talk to him, but he wouldn't let me speak. I've gone each day since and the door gets shut in my face each time," Sherlock said, his voice sounding despondent even in his own ears. It was ridiculous, that John could reduce him to such uncertainty.

Lestrade gave a small smile. "Well, you do sort of deserve it, not letting on the whole time that you were all right. He stuck by you, even when the rest of us didn't. Never gave up, that one," he mused. Sherlock groaned, and left the Yard in a huff.

He _knew_ this was exactly what he deserved, but he'd expected it after he'd had a chance to explain, to just let John know how sorry he was that there hadn't been another way, that he hadn't been clever enough to find a better solution. It was his only regret, the only thing he really felt guilt over.

Without really thinking about it he wound up outside John's new flat. The one he'd rented with Mary. Perhaps there was no room for Sherlock in this new life John had managed to carve out. Maybe John was right. He didn't belong here, in this domestic, content life of John's. If he really did love the doctor –and of course he did, Sherlock wouldn't say that if he didn't mean it with every ounce of his being- perhaps what Sherlock needed to do was


End file.
